Cheap Heat, page 17
“Okay,” she said. “Be careful, Jack. Come home. Un-perforated, like I said before.”
“I will.” I hated thinking that I might be lying to her.
The next thing I did was make two more phone calls. Then I got hold of Daphne on the hotel line. Then I sat and waited for my phone to ring, or for an email to come. Daphne waited with me.
It took an hour, but the phone did finally ring. I looked over at Daphne, whose eyes were wide. I took a deep breath to still myself, and tapped the screen to accept it.
“Mr. Dixon.”
I knew that voice: Jarl Troy, of the Aesir MC. I didn’t respond.
“Surely a man of your insight already knows that we hold your friend, Mr. Aronson.”
“What do you want, Troy?”
“Many things, Mr. Dixon, only some of which you are capable of delivering.”
“Just name it.”
“I would, except you are already proven a liar. So I will need assurances.”
“Christ, you like to hear yourself talk.”
“Swearing by the pacifist god of weaklings, cowards, and hypocrites does not become you, Mr. Dixon.”
I decided to clamp my mouth shut and give him time.
“Surely you have not been so foolish as to alert the authorities. If you were to do that, I’m afraid we would find Mr. Aronson’s continued care and feeding too expensive to countenance. And, Mr. Dixon, please understand that we are very well connected in this area. We will know if you contact the police. Then I will call you and you will listen as my seax takes a finger off Mr. Aronson for every one of my men you have taken from me.”
“No cops. I got it.”
“Yes. In time you will be provided with an address. You will go to that address—alone. We will be observing the route in. Once there, you will surrender yourself.”
“Go on.”
“Do not complicate this matter, Mr. Dixon. You owe us considerably. I did not like using Mr. Rackham in this plot. I will not like moving on to your family and friends. Such things ought to be beneath men.”
“No part of that told me how we get Grant back.”
“Once we have you, we’ll discuss ransom for Mr. Aronson. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good. Do keep this line open.” There was the silence of dead air, and then the screen of my phone lit. I looked at Daphne, who had gone pale.
“That didn’t sound good. We gotta call the cops.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. From what he just told me, I think they’re wired in. I don’t know if that means crooked cops, or some kind of tap…but it doesn’t seem like a good risk.”
“I thought the threats were in the south, in Virginia,” Daphne said. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“This has nothing to do with those threats.” My voice was much, much calmer than I felt. I sat still on the hotel room bed, breathing carefully. I wasn’t sure what came next, but some part of me was waiting for it, reserving my energy.
“What do you mean?”
“This is about me. The people who took Grant are coming at me. Not at Grant, not at your company.”
“Then why…”
“Because my name and my face were on the goddamned news, and all over the internet.” I took out the card David Rackham had given me, which I’d slipped into a plastic bag. I scanned the lines again.
Mr. Dixon,
We have been building quite the picture of your habits and acquaintances. We have no wish to hurt Mr. Rackham. He was an expedient tool to demonstrate our reach and grasp; we know you and your life, and if need be, we can reach out to people you care about more than a wrestling opponent whose back you broke. We know where you live and the places you frequent. We know where your family lives. Your friends.
Do not prove yourself a coward by putting them in danger. Wait for our instructions and even Mr. Aronson will live.
Troy.
“What do I tell Mr. Gogarty…”
“Well, I already told him plenty. He was the second phone call I made.”
“What,” she stood upright, fear suddenly replaced with anger. “Why the hell would you…”
“Because he’s responsible for this bullshit. Him and Grant. The threats were never real. It was all a goddamn piece of theater meant to blow Grant’s name and character up. That’s all.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
I sighed and went over to Grant’s side of the room, where I’d carefully spread out his luggage and clothing. I pulled two envelopes from the top of folded jeans and underwear.
“Carefully slipped inside a compartment cut in the bottom of his weekend bag. I assume this is where the other two came from. He put the last one in out of sequence; it was supposed to be third, not second. That’s why it bothered me so much. It didn’t make any sense.”
Daphne opened the letter I’d handed her and quickly scanned it, then looked up at me, her mouth slightly open.
“This was in Grant’s bag?”
“Yep.”
“So it was all an angle. One they didn’t bother telling us about.”
“They sure didn’t. And by hiring me, and then putting my name and my face all over, some old…” Enemies sounded grandiose. “Some acquaintances of mine got stirred up.”
“So you’re saying the people who knocked out one of my security guys and kidnapped Grant are after you.”
“Yeah.”
“And what’re you gonna do?”
“Fix it.”
“How?”
I took a deep breath. “This is gonna sound like some dumb bullshit, but it’s probably better if you don’t know the answer to that question.”
“What’re you gonna do, Jack, track them down and shoot them all?”
I didn’t answer.
She stared at me for a moment before looking away.
“I don’t know how many of them there are,” I said, and decided that I probably needed to assure her a little. “So, you know…probably not all. I’m not about to hand myself over to get cut into dog treats and saddlebags. But it is my responsibility to get Grant back.”
If saga accounts of the Blood Eagle were to be taken at face value, the lungs could be pulled free while the victim was still alive. I doubted that, but I didn’t much want to find out for sure.
“Then what?”
“Not really looking past that part.” The snap of ribs figured large in my imagination.
“What the hell do I tell the company? And the fans at the next stop?”
“That really isn’t my problem right now.”
Daphne stared at me for a while longer, searching for something to say. I opted not to help her look. I wasn’t happy that I’d been used, and other than staying afloat long enough to pay me, I didn’t give a good goddamn what happened to Delmarva Wrestling Federation. I think Daphne had gotten the point without my saying that.
So I went back to waiting for the phone to ring. It did, the same number as before. Once again, I picked it up in silence.
Troy gave me an address, and some directions.
“And it would be best, Mr. Dixon, to come resigned. And alone.”
“Don’t worry, I’d hate to have to dig more than one grave.”
Troy laughed. “Oh, Mr. Dixon. We won’t be needing six feet to bury any of what’s left.” A pause, but I could hear him breathing; he wasn’t done hearing his own voice yet.
“We will expect you tonight. If the sun rises and you’ve proven yourself a coward, your friend dies. Then others.”
He was done; I could tell. I waited for him to hang up. I carefully wrote down the directions he gave me, made a phone call of my own, passed the directions on, and waited twenty-five minutes.
Then I put on my vest under a thermal shirt, my shoulder-rig, the Taser, my jacket and gloves, took my helmet, and went to track down a roadie.
I found a couple of them smoking just outside the hotel lobby, huddled together against the cold.
“Need my bike out of the truck,” I said.
“And I need my ass warm and my dick sucked, but ain’t neither of those gonna happen tonight,” he responded.
I was not in the mood for impediments to my work. I grabbed the far side of his collar with my right hand, tugging it against his neck and dragging him against the wall of the hotel, away from the front doors and the lights. I jammed my forearm across his throat, restricting his breathing just enough to hear him gurgle.
“I do not have the time for your particular brand of petty bullshit,” I said, leaning forward and whispering the words while he worked hard to breathe. “Open the fucking truck, or get the keys from someone who can. Right now.”
I stepped away. The roadie gasped for breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. Behind me, his buddy had gotten his gumption up; I could hear his footsteps on the concrete as he readied himself to take a run at me.
I turned around, lifting my helmet and catching the downswing of the pocket-chain he’d been readying to swing at me. It was loud; probably chipped the paint. I didn’t have a lot of time to worry about that, so I just stared at him. I took a step forward; he took one back. I took another one. He took another one. And so on until we were back in the light cast by the lobby doors.
He got the idea and turned away. I followed the first one to the truck.
Chapter 42
It was the coldest ride I’d ever taken. There was no joy in it, no freedom, no exhilaration.
I was driving to some kind of reckoning. I’d brought it on myself, sure. I’d gotten casual and sloppy, started to let other people make decisions for me. I hadn’t been sharp enough in figuring out the bullshit Grant and his boss had cooked up.
Most of all I hadn’t taken operational security seriously enough. Too much time worrying about things outside this job.
“Can deal with all that later, if there is a later,” I said aloud, inside my helmet, which was filling up with humidity from my expelled breath in a way it didn’t usually.
I was getting close to the spot where the GPS, and the directions I was given, indicated I should turn off onto an unpaved road in an empty cornfield. It went on for a couple of hundred feet, leading to a ramshackle little house. I took in as much as I could as I got close; a car parked in the driveway, a bike parked next to it. A single light on in the house, that looked small and dim enough to be a lantern or a flashlight. I killed the engine of my bike.
Briefly I wondered if it was about to be the last time I’d ever ride It.
A figure resolved out of the gloom ahead of me, suddenly illuminated by a handle-flashlight clipped to the collar of his leather cut. One hand rested near his belt, on a holstered pistol.
“Dixon. Gimme your phone.”
I spread my hands out to either side. “Come get it.”
“Don’t play any funny bullshit with me,” the Aesir growled. Despite the beam of his flashlight, I couldn’t see much of his face. That would help.
I didn’t say anything.
“Gimme your fuckin’ phone.”
His hand moved uncertainly on the grip of his pistol. He was close enough that he wouldn’t miss if he decided to drop me right there, and I was no kind of gunslinger to try and outdraw him. Not with my jacket zipped up. Stupid, I berated myself.
Then two quick, loud pops rang out from the house. The Aesir in front of me turned towards the sound, following instinct.
I seized the moment and leapt at him. The baton snapped into my hand. He fumbled with his gun, having lost his concentration. The baton cracked him across the face. I heard the crunch of bone. He stumbled backwards. I landed on top of him, using the baton to bear him to the ground. There was a crunch; something soft gave away underneath the steel bar in my hand.
He gurgled under me, started thrashing madly, no thought of going for his gun. I realized I had the club in both hands and was pressing it down on his throat. I kept it there until the thrashing stopped. And the gurgling.
Only then did I reach down and pull the gun from the holster at his side. I vacillated between tucking it into my belt and throwing it into the field.
I heard footsteps approaching, so I clicked it off safe and pointed it toward the noise, which was a large, armed man coming straight towards me, his steps slow and measured, quieter than you’d think for someone his size.
“It’s me, Jack,” Brock Diamante—who’d been the third phone call I’d made, after Gen and Mr. Gogarty—whispered. The arm that had taken a bullet a couple of months ago was now wrapped in a soft cast. The barrel of a pistol rested on the wrist, which he lowered so the barrel pointed at the ground. I did the same.
Brock came forward, prodding at the guy on the ground in front of us with the toe of his combat boot. “He done?”
“Yeah.”
“What do we do with him?”
I thought a moment. “Let’s get him in the trunk of their car. Along with your man.”
“Yeah.” Brock looked down at the Aesir. “I didn’t hear any shots. What did you…”
I didn’t answer. We put our weapons away and bent down to pick up the biker.
Chapter 43
I hadn’t carried a dead body before. It didn’t seem like an experience that would grow on me, even though I got to do it twice in rapid succession.
Brock was ahead of the game; he’d brought tarps.
We patted the two Aesir down for anything useful before we tossed them in the trunk. Neither had usable ID; both had Utlangr on their cuts, with local marks identifying the particular branch, I guessed, and some other runic patches that symbolized who knew what. They both had phones and, luckily, one of them was very, very new. We hadn’t shut the trunk yet, so I tugged the right arm of the guy whose throat I’d crushed out of the trunk and stripped his glove off.
I pressed the thumb of the ex-biker to the home button when his phone asked for it to unlock, and unlock it did. Then—still using his hand, which I tried hard not to think about, with Brock holding the phone—I opened the GPS and looked for saved locations.
Then the phone startled us by ringing. I looked at Brock “He’ll know my voice. You gotta answer it. Just sound gruff and deferential.”
“Huh?”
“Lower your voice and say ‘yes, Jarl’ or ‘yes, sir’ every time you’re asked a question.”
I answered the call and held it to Brock, then leaned forward so I could hear it.
“Did Dixon show?” It was Troy’s voice, that was clear even from a distance.
“Yes, sir,” Brock growled. He did a passable growl, I had to admit.
“Peaceably? He hasn’t tried anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Odd. I expected more of him. Bring him to the clubhouse. Make sure he is cuffed.”
“Yes, Jarl.”
“Do this well, Bode, and promotion is likely.” The line went quiet. We waited in absolute stillness until we were sure the call was dead.
“So this asshole’s name was Bode,” Brock muttered, as he tucked the arm back inside the trunk and shut it.
“Not real interested in learning his name,” I muttered. I felt the stirring of butterflies in my stomach, but I was able to quash it without having to look at the bodies. Brock seemed to notice something was wrong.
“You gonna hold it together?”
“Yeah,” I said, with more conviction in my voice than my head.
“First one, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said.
He shrugged. “Look, uh…if you’re planning to club the rest of them to death, I don’t blame you, but…”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I realize this is gonna come down to a gunfight. I get it. Let’s go.” I’d kept Bode’s phone awake by opening apps, and finally found what had to be the clubhouse in the navigation app, as it was saved as home, was only a few miles away, and had been the most recent starting point, with the desolate farmhouse as the destination.
“Was anybody else in there?” I asked Brock, gesturing towards the house.
“Nah,” he said. “Looks like it’s deserted.”
“Aesir probably owns it. Alright. I’m gonna take their man’s bike, you drive their car. Those’ll be the engines they’re expecting to hear. Here’s what I’m thinking, but speak up if you don’t like it…”
Chapter 44
In the end, Brock had basically agreed to my plan. I tailed him all the way to the clubhouse, which, thankfully, was set in a deserted lot far from any town, behind a chain link fence. There was a long, low, single story building and an attached garage, with a quonset hut style roof. A few tall lampposts illuminated the parking lot, but dimly.
Per our plan, we pulled up but stopped short of the garage or the clubhouse, left the engines running, and slipped away from the vehicles. There was a stack of wooden pallets among assorted other junk in the lot, and we met behind it, looking for cover.
“What do we do if they just pop your boy while we’re sitting out here,” Brock murmured, barely audibly, as we waited, watching the vehicles chugging away in the cold night air.
“I don’t think they will. Not about him—it’s about me.”
Soon enough a couple of guys in cuts came out the side door of the clubhouse. One of them was carrying a shotgun in one hand, the other some kind of pistol with a long clip.
“We’re already outgunned,” Brock whispered. “Need to decide what we’re doing.”
“Follow me,” I muttered. I crunched my way across the gravel into the open garage. There were three bikes parked, as well as a van. I looked at Brock and held up four fingers, shrugged. He nodded.
We heard some shouting from the parking lot and then boots crunching on gravel towards us. I crouched behind a table full of tools against one wall, held my gun out over the top of it. Brock put himself against the hood of the van, aiming around the side.
